THE SLASH CLAUSE STRIKES AGAIN! A Sequel
by Tumbleweed
Summary: Or: What I did On My Summer Vacation. Assaulted and Kidnapped, our noble and dashing hero is forced to use his talents for nefarious purposes! See what happens when he is forced to write standard and cliche romantic pairings! Hijinks ensue. Chapter 3 up!
1. Prologue

It rained. 

Well, "it rained" is a little…weak, for that fateful night's weather. There are far stronger ways to describe it.

It poured.

Not quite.

It deluged.

Almost.

The cloud blackened sky opened itself upon the earth, battering it with torrential wave after wave of falling precipitation. 

That'll do.

Sporadic lightning illuminated the forest, verdant green branches swaying with each gust of wind. A lone man walked through the forest, uncaring of his saturated state, not minding the wetness that crept into the farthest recesses of his boots. He enjoyed the storm, enduring, embracing the elemental assault. He knew exactly what kind of conditions he could endure, and had fared his way through even worse storms than this. Even with the pouring rain, it was surprisingly warm; no need to worry about hypothermia. His boots and socks were well broken in enough that he wouldn't have to worry about blisters; though his feet would need an airing out once this was all over. While the winds whipped loose leaves and twigs about the forest floor, the gusts weren't nearly strong enough to do more to the lone forester than ruffle his rain-matted brown hair. As he walked through the trees, he only spied one problem that he'd have to address.

"Holy crap! Ninjas!"

Sensing their unnatural cover blown, they slipped from the treetops, from underground trapdoors, from behind piles of brush, each as smooth and silent as an eel as they stalked forward, making no sound even as they tramped over dry leaves. Lightning struck, thunder boomed. Taking this as a cue, they struck, sounds of whistling razored steel their only sounds.

The lone wanderer was ready.

He dodged to the side of a thrown chain, snapping out with his right hand to catch the clinking weapon. He gave the chain a hefty yank, to pull the ninja on the other end off-balance, freeing up just enough slack in the line to entangle his second assailant's sword-arm. 

With the deadly blade out of the way, the adventurer swung around, firmly planting a heavy boot into the spine of his second assailant. The assassin fell, releasing his grip on his sword. The brown-haired ranger counted on this, and quickly seized the handle of the ninja-to, instinctively finding its balance point. 

More projectiles came- thrown shuriken. He spun, knocking the deadly projectiles from the air, then continued with the momentum to cleave into another black-clad assailant. Lightning flashed with the blade, only briefly lighting the vivid red of arterial blood as it sprayed across the dried leaves of the forest floor before it all fell into darkness once more.

Ever-moving, the deadly swordsman took up a second sword, liberated from the cold hands of his freshly dead assailant. The rest struck all at once, jabbing, slashing, feinting, leaping, attacking him from all angles. While the thunderheads pounded the earth, a storm of an entirely different sort raged below, majestic oaks watching impassively. 

Even alone, the man was more than a match for the shinobi assassins. Straight blade in each hand, he was an ambidextrous maelstrom of bladed fury, parrying or dodging every blade that threatened him, working in a vicious riposte whenever possible.

Within minutes, it was over.

He stood, victorious, panting. Sweat, mixed with rainwater, dripped into his eyes, clouding his vision. Even thus, he still managed to pinpoint the lone survivor- one ninja smarter than the others, who allowed his accomplices to bear the worst of the assault as he ran the hell away. Not exactly honorable, but ninja clans were not confined by the tenets of _bushido_, the warrior's code.

The Forester narrowed his eyes, then reared back and threw one of the purloined short swords, easily pinning the fleeing assassin to a large oak. Under normal circumstances, he would've let him go; but right now, he wanted answers.

Stalking over, he removed the blade from the cloth of the ninja's shoulder to spin him around and throw him to the ground. "Who sent you?" direct, and to the point. 

The assassin's answer was just as direct- his jaw moved beneath his black mask, followed by a **CRUNCH**, which was soon complimented by a sickened gurgle. A poison capsule in the tooth. Great.

"Actually, my friend, I think I can answer your question." A voice came from behind. The Wanderer turned, and everything went black.

"Codename: Tumbleweed. Also known to work under the alias 'TumbleCoyote' or just 'Chuck' when necessary. Especially skilled at fighting the undead- and ninjas, it would seem. Prefers to write comedy, though known to dabble in other genres…" the same voice came from…somewhere, infuriatingly smug. "But most importantly…it seems that you're a bit of a renegade."

The man called Tumbleweed pulled himself back into wakefulness, testing his limbs, to make sure that they were all there, to come back with both good and bad conclusions. The Good: All his arms and legs were still there. The Bad: All four limbs were heavily chained. Blinking his eyes open, the brown-haired man took stock of his surroundings; a bare room, with a large mirror as one wall: obviously of the double-sided variety. Aside from the chair he was chained to, there was only one other bit of furniture; a desk, on which rested a desktop computer, monitor showing one of those flying toaster screensavers. "What the hell do you want?"

"Oh, that's quite simple." The disembodied voice came from a series of hidden speakers. "You're a writer, after all…and I just want you to write." A foreboding cackle issued forth. "You see, what this all boils down to is the fact that I'm acting only as an agent of law enforcement. To offer you an opportunity to make up for some of your past transgressions."

"…What the hell are you talking about? Legitimate law enforcement doesn't use ninja assassins. Besides, I haven't broken any laws here."

"Oh, are you sure? I think there's one particular guideline that you've never held in much regard…"

With a sickening lurch of the stomach, Tumbleweed realized just what his captor referred to. 

"…The Slash Clause."


	2. I Kissed a Drunk Girl: OMG! BaikenAnjiCh...

The sun shined down on The Colony, baking it with a pleasant warm aura. Throngs of people milled about the marketplace, merchants hawking their wares to the many tourists passing through; genuine Japanese style silk, woodcarvings, sushi, sake, and other such products. Business was booming in the tourist season; and with good reason. With the crusades over and tournament complete, people actually had the time and ability to travel about without having to worry about marauding Gears or bandits or monsters. As a matter of fact, it seemed as if the world was returning to a state of relative normalcy.

            Of course, much as light cannot exist without shadow, and much as good requires evil, the term 'normal' needs something to oppose it in order to be truly defined. Thankfully, on that particular day, there was quite a degree of anti-normal in the Colony. Most of that anti-normal culminated in a one-armed, one-eyed, red-haired, heavily drinking swordswoman tucked away in a corner of a dingy sushi bar. A collection of cheap sake bottles piled up on the table, the collective volume of their contents somewhere around the 'enough booze to kill a horse' category.

            A big horse.

            Thankfully for all equines and equine lovers in the area, the sake could not be not used to murder some unfortunate horse,  as the one-armed, one-eyed, red haired, heavily-drinking swordswoman made it a note to relocate the lethal alcohol to a far safer (for the horse, anyway) location.

            Her stomach.

            Now, drinking alone is a sad, sad phenomena. Drinking to such raucous bits of excess is far better as a social activity; that way, there's someone there to make sure one doesn't do anything lethal, to remember the embarrassing things one did and promptly forgot while under the influence, and (perhaps most importantly) to provide backup vocals in impromptu karaoke sessions. 

            Thankfully for the one-armed, one eyed, red-haired, heavily drinking swordswoman, she wasn't alone.

            "Baiken…don't you think that's enough?"

            "You saying I can't hold my liquor?" Baiken fumbled with one bottle, only to drop it with a clatter to the floor. "…Dammit."

            "Well, I'm not one to be sarcastic, but-"

            "Piss off, Anji." Her voice possessed just a slight drunken list to it; but the animosity still shone through. Anji wasn't sure if he should've been reassured or intimidated. At least Baiken wasn't drunk enough to forget about the occasional desire to murder him.

            On the other hand, Baiken wasn't drunk enough to forget about the occasional desire to murder him.

            Anji sighed, adjusting his spectacles in a force of habit as he regarded Baiken, feeling a flutter of emotions going through his body. She was so bitter, so violent, so antagonistic towards the outside world. By all means, it'd be far easier to let her go, to allow her to go on her way…but it still stood that their two paths were intertwined, that their roads had the same destination; it's just that Baiken had far more violent plans of when she got there.

            Even still, Anji did all he could to get beneath the woman's bitter exterior, to look past the scars, the missing limbs, the heavy drinking, and the numerous injuries she inflicted on him. After all, he figured that beneath all her emotional barriers, there was just a delicate Japanese flower, one that just needed a bit of love to truly blossom.

            Baiken belched.

            Well, at least she had a nice rack. For as deep as Anji tried to dig into the swordswoman's psyche, to find her inner softness, he was coming to the conclusion that she didn't –HAVE- a feminine side. Perhaps this night would be a little bit different; perhaps the booze would loosen Baiken's chapped lips and let her finally show some sort of emotion besides annoyance and rage. Maybe even…love? 

            As if on cue, Baiken tossed away another empty bottle, and leaned across the table. Anji blinked, then attempted not to look down her kimono, failing. "Hey, four-eyes. Stop looking at my boobs and listen to me already." She accidentally knocked a few more dead soldiers from the table. "I'm gonna tell you something that I've been meaning to tell you for awhile now…"

            "Yes?" Anji perked up and snapped his eyes back to Baiken's monocular gaze- perhaps this was the breakthrough he waited so long for. Somewhere, a stringed quartet worked a melancholy tune from their violins and violas. A sudden breeze swept through, casting a flurry of cherry blossoms through the window of the bar and over the two Japanese. 

            The setup was perfect; but like many other such romantic confessions throughout history, it was ruined before the romance could play out. At the source of it all was the traditional scourge to young lovers everywhere.

            The Ninja.

            It's a little known fact that, amongst the various functions of the ninja (such as flipping out and killing people) is a tendency of theirs to utterly ruin romantic moments due to their sudden arrival. It's not a skill they really _train_ at; it's just part of being a ninja. It's as ingrained as decomposition to a zombie or greed to a pirate. 

            And so, proving this theory to be true, a lanky, spiky-haired ninja with a scythe on his arm stepped into the sushi bar, humming "I'm turning Japanese" beneath his breath. Spying Baiken and Anji, he zeroed in upon the pair, exclaiming a "Konichiwa!" in horrifically pronounced Japanese. The stringed music quit, Baiken's one eye lost its certain glint, and the cherry blossoms fell to the floor, where they were promptly swept up and dumped into a trashcan by a passing janitor. 

            "Fancy meeting you two here!" he bubbled, roughly forcing himself in beside Anji. "I mean, like, who'd of thought of it?" he grinned in that certain way that only the blissfully unaware can manage.

            "_Can I murder him?_" Baiken lapsed into her native language, confident that Chipp wouldn't understand.

            He didn't.

            "Oooh! Japanese! I know some! _Konichiwa_!" 

            Anji sighed. "_What do I tell you every time you start getting violent?"_

            "_Kawaii!_" 

            Baiken glared at Chipp. "_Please, no, don't stab me in the face?"_

"_Besides that."_

_            "My hand slipped?"_

Anji's face flushed. "_No, not that, either._"

_            "Baka!_" The ninja continued to throw out random Japanese words, each mispronounced syllable building up Baiken's urge to fight. Chipp failed to notice.

            "_…That violence is not the answer?_" Baiken said the words slowly, the concept sounding utterly alien coming from her mouth.        

            "_That's it_!" Anji smiled, attempting to soothe his female companion.

            _"Domo Arigato, Mister Roboto!_" 

            Baiken blinked a few times, then proceeded to renew her murderous glare at the Ninja. It was only the large amount of alcohol in Baiken's bloodstream that kept Chipp alive, as her reflexes weren't as good as they should have been. Spying Baiken going for that sword, Anji flicked one of his fans beneath the table, rapping her sword-hand before she could fillet Chipp. He'd have to think fast, however, lest Baiken go for that sword again and get to fighting anew. 

            "Uh…hey Chipp!" he switched back to English. "You ever had sake before?" Anji snatched up a still filled bottle, smiling falsely. "It's Japanese!"

            "Oh, really? Cool!" The mention of a certain J-word was all that that was needed to convince Chipp to drink; so he did. He threw his head back and chugged down the entire contents of the bottle in a decidedly non-Japanese manner. "Good stuff." Chipp gasped.

            Anji blinked. "Err, I'm that's not quite what I meant…"

            The ninja shook his head. "Nah, I can handle-" it was at that particular moment that the potent effects of the alcohol hit Chipp's bloodstream fully, causing him to drop to the floor, comatose. 

            Baiken snorted in amusement. "Lightweight." This said, she got to her feet and ambled off, pleasantly intoxicated for the time being, leaving Anji with a drunken ninja and a considerable bar tab.

            In short, the usual.

            "What the hell was that?"

            "What?"

            "That wasn't very romantic." 

            "…I tried!"

            "No you didn't! If you really did, they'd be naked and crying by now?"

            "Who?"

            "All of them!"

            "Hey, I did what I could, alright? It's not _my_ fault that they went off on their own!"

            "Yes it is! I mean, you were going somewhere with the drunk in a bar bit…but then nothing happened!"

            "No, then a Ninja showed up. That's something. You wanted him to show up anyway."

            "Well, true…but…but…someone was supposed to fall in love there!"

            "Who? The only woman you gave me to work with is insanely murderous. I mean, I had to get her pretty well soused so she wouldn't just murder everyone; myself included."

            "…Whatever. We'll just have to move onto a different set of characters then, hrrm? And we'll keep on going until you fulfill the requirements of **THE SLASH CLAUSE!**"

            "Did you have to yell that last part? I'm right here, you know."

            "Shut up and write."


	3. Into the Parlor: Testament and Dizzy!

            As the old saying goes, a man's home is his castle.

            There are some that take this saying too seriously.

            To tell the truth, Castles are a fairly common sight in Europe; with good reason, to boot. Back in the feudal era, every Baron, Duke, and Prince required his own drafty fortress for a place to live and take refuge from the varying sieges and other such battles that were common at the time. All castles required a few basic elements; thick walls, a strategic location, a modicum of towers…and the occasional dungeon.

            Even once the age of chivalry and knights had long since passed away, there were still two subcultures that found quite a use for the old structures: Nefarious Villainy and Gothic Poets. The black-clad poets found something tragic in the passing of a romantic age, often citing the ruined battlements as bleak tribute to the futility of man's endeavor, gray monuments to be torn down by the incessantly steady tides of entropy, parallels to their own miserable, angst-ridden existences. 

            As for Nefarious Villainy, another black-clad subculture (though a far more interesting one) their own reasons for inhabiting abandoned castles are (and always have been) far more practical. Not only does such an environment add a general level of dramatic flair to any situation, but an ancient castle is a prime location from which to base one's Death Ray, Weather Machine, Doomsday Device, Cloning Tanks, Dark Ritual, or other tools of world-threatening Evil. Or, for those without the time or resources to construct or acquire such wonderfully lethal devices, abandoned castles are prime repositories for the occasional damsel hostage. 

            Or, in the case of one unique combination of a Nefariously Gothic Villain Poet, one such typical abandoned castle was the perfect place for holding a damsel who just happened to be a weapon.

            Or would that be a weapon that was also a damsel?

            Whatever.

            Within the dank confines of that dreary dungeon, Testament stood still as a statue, leaning against his scythe. His posture was stooped- carefully so, as to drape his long tresses of hair over his face in the properly brooding manner. 

            Across the room, against a moist wall, Testament's prisoner hung, shackled at the wrists.  Stirring herself into consciousness, she peered upwards, face obscured by her own lengthy blue hair. Dizzy felt just that, fighting to keep the room from spinning. Shaking her hair from her eyes, she glared at Testament. "What…what's going on?"

            Testament didn't respond. 

            Dizzy tugged at her chains once again, using a great deal of her supernatural strength in an attempt to escape, yet the adamantine bonds held her fast. Chains rattled, she sighed, looking back to Testament. "Why am I chained up?"

            Testament didn't move.

            "Where are we?"

            Testament remained still.

            "What do you want?"

            Nothing.

            "HEY!" 

            Testament started to life at the shrill exclaimation, losing his grip on the scythe he leaned on, toppling over to the floor in a pile of pasty white and black leather. Immediately afterwards, he was back on his feet, attempting to look brooding…and failing, miserably. "So, you're awake. Good."

            "…Why have you got me chained here?"

            "Ah, a very astute question." Testament shook his greasy black tresses from his face. "As you've learned, Dizzy, the world is a very dangerous sort of place…which is why I've brought you here." He gestured to the darkened dungeon about them. "It's for your own safety. Here, you'll be safe from any Pirates, Bounty Hunters, Assassins, or Overzealous Knights that might want to hurt you."

            "…And I'm chained to the wall because…?"

            "Because, sometimes you wouldn't appreciate such safety. Don't worry, it's for your own good."

            "You expect me to just sort of hang here and rot for…how long now?" Dizzy scowled, again tugging at her bonds.

            "Oh, you're not going to _hang_ there for too terribly long. Just for as long as it takes for me to convince you that staying here is all you need to do…"

            "But…but there's a whole great world out there! So many things to see! So many things to do! So many people to meet! Why can't you let me free?"

            "I'd thought you'd say that. But don't worry-" Testament stalked closer to his captive, leaning in uncomfortably close to the young female, close enough for Dizzy to feel his cold breath upon the nape of her soft neck. "I've can think of a few ways for us to…pass the time." Slowly, tentatively, Testament reached up, using the tips of his delicate fingers to trace the shapely contours of Dizzy's body, bare millimeters from the surface of her skin.        

            Testament reveled in Dizzy's discomfort, a long dormant sensation running up his spine, the electric sensation threatening to override his higher mental processes. He allowed himself a moment to savor the feeling.

            It was at that moment that he realized the particular stinging sensation wasn't much like any sort of sexual feeling he had experienced before. Rather, it felt more like the particular sensation that comes about due to the physical intervention of something large and pointed to the back.

            Testament glanced over his shoulder to find an arrow poking out of his left buttock. "What the hell?"

            "You didn't kill him, Ranger!" spoke a voice from the darkness.

            "Well, I tried!" A second voice.

            "You shot him in the ass!"

            "So?"

            "You were supposed to kill him so we could save the damsel?"  
            "Well, I can shoot him again." With that, the Ranger did, placing another arrow into Testament's other buttock.

            "You shot him in the ass again!" 

            "I'd like to see –YOU- do better, I mean, it's dark in here- I'm operating with, like, a -3 penalty here!"

            "Oh, fine. I'll do the dirty work, as per the usual. Magic Missile!" A bolt of white-hot magical energy streaked out from the shadowed hallway, crashing into Testament, complete with a peal of lightning. The gear-lord could only blink as the energy sent him flying across the dungeon room to crash into the stone wall, leaving a gear-shaped crater within. With a groan, Testament fell to the ground in a pile of unconscious limbs and polished vinyl.

            From the shadows, two figures emerged. The first, decked out in varying items of leather, wool, and chain mail must have obviously been Ranger, due to the bow in his hand. His robed companion followed, leather-bound tome in hand and triumphant smirk on his lip. "Ha! Critical Hit, bitch!" the wizard-apparent declared, pointing triumphantly at the heap of Testament.

            "Now…where's the loot?"

            "CUT!" Said one otherworldly voice.

            "Oh, playing director now, are we?" Came the flippant baritone of Tumbleweed.

            "THAT is not what I wanted!"

            "Hey, you said 'something with a dungeon', and that's what I gave you!"

            "But…it was supposed to have whips and chains and other kinky stuff!"

            "Well, sorry. But it's a documented fact that every good Dungeon has some adventurers sifting through it for loot."

            "What?"

            "It's true. Right up there with the slime and rats.  Union rules, these days. Do you want me to get the contract?"

            The second voice muttered several obscenities beneath his breath. "…Let's move on, Tumbleweed."

            "Alright, alright. Don't worry- I've got something spectacular in mind." 


End file.
